


O in turns of tempest

by i_claudia



Series: Check/Mate [12]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: (infidelity), Age of Sail, Alternate Universe - Historical, M/M, Serious Injuries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-01
Updated: 2013-05-01
Packaged: 2017-12-10 01:26:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/780171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/i_claudia/pseuds/i_claudia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which several years have passed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	O in turns of tempest

**Author's Note:**

> Darlings, I meant to have this up by early February, and life got away from me -- my deepest apologies for the wait. I hope this makes up for it. ♥
> 
> This is part of the check/mate verse, now, alas, drawing to an end. This bit will probably not make much sense unless you have read [Heart of Oak](http://archiveofourown.org/works/631183). Cheerled through frequent bouts of authorial anxiety by corvus_noir, who remains, always, my guiding light, shining star, and Shinkicker-in-Chief.
> 
> Title shoplifted from “Carrion Comfort”, by Gerard Manley Hopkins.

Arthur—Arthur Henry Edward Pendragon, Marquess of Avalon, Earl of Tintagel, baron Pendragon—had since his youth been well acquainted with the time-consuming intricacies of portrait painting. Not, of course, that he had ever painted a portrait himself; although he had unwillingly attended several painting lessons, these had been focused primarily on still-lifes featuring flowers and vases, with the advanced lessons pushing into the more daring field of landscapes. But he had sat for his first portrait on his mother's knee, exasperated and itching to move or to loosen the tight collar which scratched so at his throat, and the experience had not much changed for him in the intervening years. Still, the portrait had already been commissioned and could not be refused, and he would be lying if he said he did not enjoy the quiet which the sessions forced on his routine. 

“That will be all for today, my lord,” the painter said, putting down his brush, and Arthur stretched gladly, feeling the bones crackle from his neck down between his shoulders. “You will be pleased to know we are nearly done, I think.”

“It will be well worth the hours spent,” Arthur said, as diplomatically as he was able, for the painter was one of the most sought-after artists from the Continent, with the temperament to match. “I shall be here the same time tomorrow.”

The painter waved a hand, sending his apprentice scurrying for Arthur's hat and coat, and Arthur took the opportunity to wander through the cramped studio—cramped not from limited space, for it was quite a large room, but from the sheer volume of canvasses which the painter had taken upon himself to stuff the space with; he was a busy man, and the fire in his fingers only drove him on to further, grander projects. Arthur supposed that properly he should have directed the man to attend him at Pendragon House, but he rarely had the chance now to venture anywhere beyond the small circles of his peers, and he had jumped at the opportunity to breathe more freely for a few hours. 

“Do you like it?” the painter asked him, nodding at the portrait Arthur had been absently studying. It was not quite finished, but Arthur recognized the duchess well enough. 

“It is a good likeness,” he said. “I am surprised to see her dogs are not at her feet, though.” 

“Pah,” the painter said dismissively. “I do not paint _animals_.”

Arthur hummed and turned—and stopped. 

The painting hung on the wall, finished but not yet framed, the canvas still stretched over a wooden skeleton as it dried. A darkening sea lay distant in the background, all black-green and fading greys, and the man who stood before it gazed pensively to his right, one hand firm upon the gilded hilt of his sword. The uniform had altered, and beneath his hat the hair at his temples had silvered, but Arthur stood transfixed by memory, paralysed by the recognition which surged in him, a thousand demons burning fierce beneath his skin.

“Ah yes,” the painter said from behind his shoulder. “Admiral Emrys. My newest work.” 

Arthur murmured a reply—what words passed his lips he did not know—and remained before the portrait, searching, greedy for the details which might be hidden within the brush strokes. Merlin had not changed much, in the years. He was more solemn, perhaps, but then Arthur himself looked far sterner when rendered in paint than he considered himself to be in life. The distinctive scar across Merlin's brow had vanished—Arthur suspected that to be a vanity of the painter—but his face was otherwise the same, dark brows arched almost in question and his cheeks closely shaven. The left side of his chest was heavy with burnished medals, only half of which Arthur was able to identify, and his epaulettes seemed so bright as to glow; likewise his buttons, gold against the blue of his jacket. His black neckcloth was fastidiously tied, and Arthur felt his shoulders twitch at that, unwillingly remembering the length of black cloth still in his possession, hidden deep among his trinkets and tightly wrapped around a small bundle of papers.

Merlin's right hand rested at his side to display the storied missing fingers, but it was not the right hand which drew Arthur's gaze, not the right hand which made the air drag painfully in his chest. The hand which gripped the sword hanging from Merlin's left hip was wholly unremarkable, the focus of the viewer clearly meant to be elsewhere, and yet Arthur was entirely consumed by it—by the small, plain band which encircled the fourth finger.

“I will frame it today,” the painter said, and Arthur jumped at the sound; he had quite forgotten the other man was there. “The Admiral will come to approve it, and I will be done with it at last.” He gave a brief motion with his hand, moving it from the wrist, discounting it as one of his more uninteresting projects: merely a commission he had taken to pay his expenses. “It is good, though, no?”

Arthur cleared his throat, and cleared it again. “Yes,” he said. “Yes, it is.” His tongue was dry and clumsy, and was glad for the distraction of the young assistant returning with his coat and hat.

Arthur had, in his possession, a collection of foolish letters. They were all of them written in his hand, all of them dated long after the last time he had seen Merlin in person—that last, terrible time!—none of them sent. At first they had served to rub salt hard into his own wretched wounds in the hopes of cauterising them, but the time, as it passed, had mellowed this urge. The latest one was dated five years past, and was almost a missive he might have written to a friend—a dear one, to be sure, but no more than a friend, interested in the daily toils and tribulations of his life. 

Why he kept them he could not say; whether out of spite or something far more painful he could not tell. It was a dangerous game, but he was confident enough in his station that he considered the risk of discovery to be small. He did not keep them with his other papers, after all, and his mastery of his household was absolute; not a single man or woman would dare touch what was his. The letters were a private hairshirt—a private heartbreak—a secret which betrayed him as a desperate romantic, for they showed how viciously he had held onto hope, how long it had taken him to resign himself to bitterness. He had spent fortnights lying awake in furious turmoil, composing his latest missive—had promised Merlin everything and more, all but begging—the cottage remained hidden, he had written more than once—Merlin was to use it when he wished—whenever he needed to rest away from the sea—it was at his pleasure.

Arthur had not added the obvious, for there was no use. The letters would never be sent. Even if Merlin had read them it would not have made a difference. Merlin had been nothing if not definitive when he had ended the affair; the ties which bound them had been burnt to ashes, no matter how fiercely Arthur might wish it otherwise.

The wind, when he stepped outside after bidding a final adieu to the painter, was bitter, and he turned up his collar against it, glad for the distraction. It was by all accounts a particularly frigid January, and though the cold set his teeth on edge he welcomed the chance to mask his emotions beneath a shiver. 

How his hopes had lingered, how long and dreadful had been their final agonies! But they had, at the end, faded; he had buried them in the back pastures of his mind—not without honour, but deep, that they might never trouble him again. This very morning he had been a man unperturbed, having gained confidence over the years that he had quit his terrible burden and walked a free man. And yet here he stood, all his ghosts raised in a fury once more because Merlin—Christ in heaven—Merlin wore his ring, and that was all the nudge it took for Arthur to stumble and fall over the cliff. 

He considered for a moment that Merlin might have married, that the ring was not a match to the band he himself wore on a long thin chain hidden around his neck. It was not out of the realm of possibilities, but Arthur was sure of the identification. He had picked the ring out himself, had chosen it carefully, and despite the long years separating them he felt he still knew Merlin: Merlin would not have chosen any mistress other than the sea. Yet all of this left Arthur back where he had started—shaken, his mind in a tumble—questioning the very ground he stood upon, because what could Merlin _mean_ by it? Was it merely a memento for him, a silent reminder of their time together and nothing more? Or could it be—could Merlin regret what had passed between them at the end—could he possibly have repented of their splintering?

Arthur drew a breath, his chest stinging from the cold dampness of the air, and passed a hand over his face. This speculation would get him nowhere; there was only one course left to him. He must find Merlin, must see him, ask him all the questions haunting him anew. It was not, he knew, the best choice open to him—it was not even a very good one—but he could consider no other option. What else was he to do, after all: return to his comfortable life and say nothing more about the matter, keep his silence until the chaos in him quieted? He had done that once already, and had not the least desire to repeat the experience. 

His driver had seen him and had gone already to fetch the carriage, but Arthur began to walk along the street, unable to remain longer in one spot. Leon was a good man, intelligent and and attuned to Arthur's peculiarities; he would find Arthur soon enough. 

The crowds were thin on the streets, most people seeking the warmth of a hearth, putting off their errands and appointments for another day, one in which the wind was not so foul. Those who were forced outside kept their heads down as they walked, chins pressed almost to their chests, but Arthur examined the faces of those he could see, almost absently. It was a laughable hope, the act of a fool, but Arthur did not mind—he was a fool, he knew, had always been one where Merlin was concerned—and he kept his eyes up doggedly, though the wind stung, vicious, at his face. 

A flash of movement caught his eye from across the street, and he nearly wrenched his neck in spinning for a better look. The gentleman in question had turned away—Arthur only had the merest glimpse of his face—but his shoulders were slender enough beneath the wool of his greatcoat, and his head was uncovered, revealing a tidy mop of dark hair. Arthur could see now that he had stopped to chase his hat, which had blown off his head and was tumbling merrily down the street away from him. There was no guarantee that it was Merlin—it was almost certainly not—yet Arthur, for a moment, felt sure it _was_ , would swear that it was Merlin—it was just the sort of thing that might happen to Merlin—had, in fact, happened more than once when they had occasion to walk together. He was holding onto his own hat before he knew it, dashing across the street to the other man and nearly falling on the ice which lay in dangerous patches across the road.

He did not call out, hardly daring to break whatever spell might have brought him this close to Merlin after so much time, but he drew near enough to touch the other man on the shoulder as the man was dusting off his recovered hat.

“Sir—” he began, suddenly unsure. The man turned around at his voice, and Arthur barely resisted closing his eyes in resignation; it felt too dangerously close to grief.

“I do beg your pardon,” he told the stranger. “I mistook you for a friend.”

The man looked at him suspiciously, resettling his hat on his head, then nodded. “No harm done, eh?” he said, and continued down the street past Arthur. 

Arthur took a moment to straighten his own hat, taking one measured pace, then another. Merlin must be in the city somewhere, if the painter had spoken true. He clung to that, began to shape all manner of wild plans in which he might find where Merlin had hidden himself. It was likely that Merlin no longer kept the same quarters on land—as a decorated admiral, he would have a house, at least, or so Arthur imagined—perhaps it was time to call in a few of the small favours he was owed, to find the address. He would start now; once Leon caught up to him he would direct the carriage straight to the Admiralty, for there was no telling when the tide would take Merlin back to sea, beyond Arthur's reach again.

Slowly, the noise filtering through the fug of his thoughts in stops and pieces, he became aware of a commotion behind him on the street: screams, and a great deal of shouting, though he could not make any of the words out. Preoccupied as he was, he did not at first turn to see, but when the uproar grew suddenly closer, he cast a curious glance over his shoulder. 

A carriage had gone out of control on the ice, tipped over to its side. The horses had spooked and were kicking in their traces as they tried to run, and it took Arthur a moment longer than it should have to realise the whole mess was coming straight at him, sliding easily over the frozen cobblestones as onlookers shouted and waved their hats—either warning him or attempting to startle the horses into a different direction. He stood at the innermost point of a curve in the street, a solid brick wall behind him and the horses closing fast enough that he could see the rolling whites of their eyes; there was nowhere safe for him to move, and no time for him to move there. He swore, and threw up his arms, shutting his eyes—

Something—some _one_ —hit him hard about the middle, sending him flying, stumbling until he lost his footing on the ice. He could hear the horses' hooves as he fell, knew that he was within seconds of being trampled anyway, and though he twisted he saw only enough to register the blue and gold of a Navy man's jacket—bright buttons flashing—before he hit his head hard on something, and his sight went dark in a mad burst of painful lights.

He woke in his own carriage, clawing his way from grogginess into a splitting headache. He sat upright, throwing a hand out to steady himself when the world spun sick around him, and only just managed to stop himself from vomiting into his own hat, which had been balanced in his lap. There were nails in his head above his eyes and behind his ears; he put his hand up to pull them out and found only a narrow gash across his forehead, still bleeding. The blood would get on the lap robe, he thought blindly, and stain, and his father would have some choice words to say about that—he fumbled for his handkerchief and held it up to stanch the bleeding. His mind cleared somewhat as he did so, and he remembered himself: remembered that his father had died years before; remembered the skidding landau, and that he had been walking; that he had come from the painter's, where he had seen...

He rapped on the front of the carriage with his knuckles, then again, harder, until Leon heard, slowing the carriage to a stop. Someone had leapt to save him, when rightfully he should be lying trampled somewhere, a broken mess on icy cobblestones. Someone wearing the bright braid of His Majesty's Navy. 

Leon had hopped down from the perch to pull the door open a crack, peering in with a worried expression and pulling his box coat more snugly closed. “My lord?”

“The other man,” Arthur demanded. “The one who pushed me—did he live?”

“The officer?” Leon asked, hesitating. “You are badly injured, my lord, would it not—” 

Arthur set his face more sternly. “That is not the question I asked.” 

“They took him to hospital,” Leon said, covering a sigh, for he knew what his next order would be. He wished that his employer would, for once, do the less honourable thing and have his head seen to by a proper physician before running off to concern himself with the condition of another.

“Take me there,” Arthur said, sitting back and wincing a little as the motion made his vision swim. “At once.”

“Yes, my lord,” Leon replied, and climbed dutifully back into his seat, clucking to the horse. 

The journey was not a long one, and it was made shorter when Arthur dozed off despite himself, waking only when the carriage came to a stop before the hospital. Leon opened the door, and Arthur stepped gingerly down, concealing his wince as the movement jarred him and sent his natural sense of balance spinning.

“Sir,” Leon said, disapproving, for he had served Arthur so long as to be almost counted a friend, and though he would never dream to directly oppose Arthur, he felt himself free to express his concerns; “are you quite sure—”

“My father's cane is still tucked in the far corner,” Arthur directed him, holding out a hand, and Leon frowned, but retrieved the item. 

“Shall I wait with the carriage, then?”

“For a moment,” said Arthur, testing the cane and taking a shuffling step forward. “I don't believe I shall be long.”

Leon knew that to be an utter falsehood, but he could see that Arthur believed it, so he merely nodded and kept a worried eye fixed on Arthur, ready to run to his aid as he slowly ascended the few shallow steps to the hospital doors. 

Arthur felt confident that whoever the man had been who saved him, it could not be Merlin, but the possibility niggled at him, tugging at the threads of his consciousness and threatening to unravel him into madness. He must know. In any case he must thank the man for saving him from a painful and rather ignominious death—at the very least from a grievous injury—and see to it that his rescuer received all proper care and attention to heal whatever wounds he had sustained. 

Inside the hospital someone was screaming, high and wavering, and Arthur flinched, nearly retreating outside before the screams choked off, trailing into a lower register which did not carry. He took a breath, squaring his shoulders beneath his greatcoat, and began his search. There were few people he could immediately see—a mother stood to his left with her children, the woman bending down to straighten one of her sons' collars with hands that did not shake, murmuring to him; there was a man with a bandaged head and a stump for an arm leaning against a far wall, who Arthur assumed must be a patient—but no one appeared to be useful to him at the moment. The nurses, stern in their uniforms, moved briskly, and it took him some effort to catch at the elbow of one matronly nurse as she passed, her hands full of a tray of vile-looking instruments. 

“I beg your pardon, madam,” he began, and the nurse, having shaken off his grip, waited expectantly, her impatience thinly veiled until she noticed the clothes beneath his coat—his knees were torn dreadfully and his side thick with mud, but his outfit had been chosen carefully for the portrait, and he knew it marked him obviously as a wealthy man, someone of importance.

“I beg your pardon,” he repeated. “But I believe they have just brought an officer in, badly wounded, I think—”

“They have, sir,” she said. “You will not be able to see him, I'm afraid.”

Arthur leaned more heavily on his cane. “He saved my life. I am in his debt.”

Her look softened some at that, though the stiffness of her spine never left her. “The surgeon is with him now.”

“I will wait.”

“It may be some time, sir,” she said, but when it was clear to her that Arthur would not be moved, she added, “I will have a chair brought out for you,” and strode off, the tray perfectly steady in her hands.

It was a quarter of an hour before a pockmarked young man brought him a wooden chair, and two hours more after that before Leon came searching for him. 

“My lord,” Leon said, laying a gentle hand on Arthur's shoulder, for Arthur had closed his eyes against the room, which felt as if it rolled like a ship in heavy seas. “They are beginning to light the streets; it will be fully dark soon. Would it not be better to return tomorrow?”

“Don't be foolish,” Arthur said, crossing his hands one over the other on the head of his cane, linking his thumbs below the golden dragon's head to anchor himself. “I cannot leave. You may go; I will send word when I have need of the carriage.”

“My lord—” Leon began, but Arthur would not be moved.

“It will not be long, but someone must tell Mrs Connelly to keep a plate of dinner warm for me. Go, Leon.” 

Leon hesitated. “What shall I tell my lady Pendragon?”

“She will understand,” Arthur said firmly. “This man saved my life, Leon; she would not want me to leave the poor soul to suffer.”

Leon bit his tongue on his reply, and nodded, taking his leave. He did not forget, however, to speak quietly with a nurse once Arthur had again closed his eyes—if Arthur would not care for himself, it was left, as ever, for Leon to ensure that his employer did not perish before the dawn. 

Arthur was irritated when a pleasant, rotund nurse bustled up to him and began to tilt his head this way and that, examining his injuries, but he did not stop her from mopping up the blood which had dried on his face and cleaning out the gash as best she could. She took no notice of his surliness, having long experience with patients who would rather be anywhere than a hospital, even one so well-run as this. Arthur was in the end forced to admit that the cool cloth she wielded was a great comfort to the low throb in his temples; when she had finished affixing a bandage to his brow he was courteous enough to thank her. 

He waited past nightfall, watching as the same pockmarked boy who had fetched the chair went about lighting a few lamps to illuminate the narrow halls. His watch was in his pocket, but he did not bother to check it. There was no schedule to keep, after all. They would allow him in to see the patient, or they would not—in either case he was bound to stay until he could ascertain the man's identity, though the ache in his head had only increased and a faint nausea had begun once again to rise in his throat. Perhaps he had been overhasty in sending Leon away, but the carriage would do no good here, and there had been no good place for it to wait. 

Leaning his head back only increased the nauseous feeling, and bending it forward hurt his neck; in the end he was only able to grip more tightly at the head of his cane and close his eyes, breathing shallowly through his nose as the time slipped by him. He had nearly dozed off when someone touched his shoulder, startling him. 

“Lord Pendragon?” It was the matronly nurse he had first stopped, accompanied now by a man Arthur assumed to be the attending surgeon. He straightened himself in the chair and blinked until his vision came into focus. 

“My lord,” the surgeon said, still wiping his hands on a cloth, “I am Henry Braddock, chief physician here. I understand you know my patient?”

“The officer?” Arthur asked, and cleared his throat against his hoarseness. “I don't believe I have ever met him, but he saved my life today. I would like to see him, to offer him whatever services and care might be beyond his reach to aid in his recovery.”

Braddock handed the stained cloth he held to the nurse. “He will be well cared for here,” he assured Arthur. “We have put him in a room alone: his condition is still too delicate to be disturbed by the more public wards.” He did not add that the man's rank alone would have guaranteed him more than the simple privacy of a curtain. There had been another outbreak of ward fever of late, and Henry Braddock would not stand to be the attending surgeon when an officer of the Navy succumbed to something so infuriatingly common. Neither would he come between a Navy man and any offer of assistance, even if it appeared as a mad lord with torn knees and a bandaged head. His brother had died somewhere near Majorca years before, serving His Majesty, and he had long since found that grief was best served by subverting it through action, even the action of others. “You may see him, though. He is still sleeping off the laudanum, I'm afraid; if he does not wake soon you will have to return tomorrow.”

“I understand.” Arthur stood, waving off any helping hand, and leant once more on his cane, following Braddock to a room nearly at the end of the long corridor. The door was closed. 

“His injuries,” Arthur said suddenly as Braddock stretched a hand to open the door, for he could not bear the suspense longer. “They are extensive?”

“We have done our best,” Braddock replied, his hand still on the door. “I believe he will live, though he may yet lose the leg; it was badly mangled.”

Arthur shut his eyes a moment, and nodded.

“Do you still wish to see him?” Braddock asked, watching Arthur closely, and Arthur looked at him, taken aback. 

“Of course.” 

Braddock bowed slightly in response, giving him a deep nod, and pushed the door open. “I will send someone by shortly to see you out again.”

Arthur walked past him into the room, murmuring his understanding, but he barely noted the physician's words; he failed to hear anything but the pounding of his blood in his ears as Braddock closed the door and walked away, brisk footsteps echoing down the corridor 

The room was lit by a solitary lamp on the far wall; it was plain, unadorned but for a small table between the two narrow beds, which held a pitcher and a shallow bowl. Arthur saw all of this and yet none of it, for his eyes were fixed on the man lying motionless in the rightmost bed: a man who still, after all the lonely years, turned Arthur's vision dim and narrow—caused a roaring in his ears which no other sound could match—who still, after all the aching, hopeless grief, turned Arthur's knees and heart to water.

“ _Merlin_.”

Arthur could manage no more than a whisper, and Merlin did not move; he lay pale and still upon the bed, a bruise surfacing in brilliant colours across his cheek and chin and his hands hidden beneath a thin grey blanket.

The cane fell to the ground with a clatter. Arthur took two, three stumbling steps to the cot, grabbing blindly at the edge as he fell, heedless of his scraped knees; he barely kept his balance as his shoulders shook and his vision blurred. He pressed his forehead to the thin mattress, and closed his eyes against the sudden burning in them, helpless against the dry heaves which shook at him until he trembled, weak as the skeleton of a leaf in a storm. There was nothing to come up but bile—he had not eaten since the morning—and he swallowed it down, his fists clenched together as if in prayer as he fought the tremors which wracked him. 

Merlin; God in heaven, _Merlin_. Merlin, in front of him at last, long after Arthur had given up all hope of ever setting eyes on him again. Arthur felt for a moment, that his emotions might overcome him entirely, and he would go mad, torn apart by them—he gasped, and gasped again, and drew his hands more firmly into fists, until he felt the shakes recede. 

Merlin, when Arthur recovered himself, had not stirred, and Arthur struggled off of his aching knees to sink onto the empty cot, leaving his cane on the floor. He thought, for a moment, of sitting on Merlin's own bed, but he could not trust that they would remain undisturbed, and more than that—he could not yet know Merlin's reaction, if he woke and saw Arthur here.

It was cold in the room; now that the first daze of shock had passed, Arthur could feel the chill seeping through his boots, twining over his shoulders and reaching underneath his collar. He pulled his coat around him more securely, huddling further into it until the wool scratched at his ears. There was no other blanket to be found, though he looked for one—the cot he sat on was bare, stripped of any bedclothes. Merlin was not shivering, but the blanket covering him to the shoulders looked pitifully inadequate to Arthur, who remembered still how easily Merlin was affected by the cold.

It had been winter the last time Arthur had sat by Merlin while he lay injured, as well. Merlin had been forced into inaction by a bullet through his thigh; it had been a clean shot, without shattering the bone, but the wound had festered when Merlin refused to have it seen to. He had not lost the leg, in the end, but it had been a longer recovery than he had liked. Arthur had offered the hospitality of his house, the attention of his own physician, and he remembered now—lord, it had been years since he had thought of this—he remembered how Merlin had gone about huddled in robes and blankets despite the mild fever which made him sweat. Arthur had ignored or rearranged all of his commitments, that winter; everything had seemed so dull, so absolutely insignificant next to the sight of Merlin wrapped in Arthur's bed, the quiet comfort of Merlin's bare warmth curled around him beneath the covers as the sleeting rain spit and rattled against the windowpanes. 

Merlin had been a poor patient, short-tempered, chafing at the forced rest. He kept watch at the windows half the time, as if by straining his eyes he would be able to see his ship as she underwent the necessary extensive repairs: the refitting of a new mast to replace the shattered old one, the tedious scraping of her hull—and Arthur, for all he had tried to distract Merlin, had known that Merlin wished to be elsewhere. He had not taken it as an insult. He understood that it was not the house or even himself that Merlin hated, but being injured and away from his ship, away from the helm, from the sea which he loved better than his own life. It had not been an intuitive understanding, and Arthur had struggled with it—they had fought—he had nearly thrown Merlin from his presence twice—but he _had_ , in the end, accepted it: accepted that for all Merlin cared for him above all others, loved him in a thousand small tender moments, half of Merlin's heart would always be unreachable to any man.

And yet, Arthur thought now. And yet here Merlin was, rendered prone and pale by injury once more; here he himself was, dizzy from his fall but otherwise unharmed. No matter how he turned his memory of the incident over and sideways, it was undeniable that Merlin had deliberately put himself in danger—had, quite literally, thrown himself into harm's way—in order to save someone. To save _Arthur_ ; and here Arthur felt his pulse increase, the ache in his head sharper somehow. Merlin was a good man, to be sure. There was no doubting that Merlin was selfless, sacrificing all his own comfort and well-being in service to his country, but Arthur thought it unlikely that Merlin would throw himself in front of a carriage to shield a stranger. Perhaps, if the carriage was French and a xebec, and the stranger was a British merchantman in distress...Arthur gave a minute shake of his head, wincing as even that gentle motion jarred his aches and sent the room into a gentle, nauseous tilt.

There was no way to know if Merlin had recognised Arthur, and Arthur's uncertainty burned at him. If Merlin had seen him, had put himself purposefully between Arthur and danger, willing to risk certain terrible injury if it meant Arthur would be saved—did it mean—what? 

“Lord Pendragon.”

Arthur looked to the door, where Braddock stood, clearly set to turn him out. He pulled himself up where he sat, throwing his shoulders back and his chin forward. “Yes?”

Braddock considered him, disapproval clear. “Forgive my being so bold, my lord,” he said, coming forward to stand between Arthur and Merlin, bending to lay his fingers on Merlin's throat to feel for the pulse; “but you should return tomorrow. You are injured, and need more than a hasty bandage for your head.”

Arthur watched as Braddock drew the blanket down from Merlin's shoulders, folding it back to his waist and running an expert hand along the bandages wrapped around Merlin's arm. He knew he should go without a fuss; it was likely that the laudanum would keep Merlin sleeping until morning, at least, and the last thing he should do was draw any sort of attention to either of them or the history between them. He knew this, and all the same it was quite beyond his capacity to leave. There was a lurking fear that Merlin would not be there when he returned, that Merlin would have once again disappeared and been lost to him.

He lied, instead. “I have sent a boy for my carriage, but it will be some time before it arrives.” He gestured toward Merlin. “He was stirring, a little while ago, as if he might be waking. I shall wait until my driver comes, and if he does not awake before then, I will return tomorrow for the proper introductions.”

If Braddock saw through the lies, he said nothing, merely nodded and drew the blanket back over Merlin's form, retreating with nothing more than a few courteous words in parting which Arthur returned as graciously as he was able. 

The room was very quiet, after Braddock left. There was no noise from the corridor, and though Merlin's chest rose and fell his breath was too soft to hear. The lamp guttered above them, and Arthur pulled his greatcoat more tightly closed, shifting into a more comfortable position, his hands crossed, palms up, in his lap. His head still throbbed, but he ignored it, pushing the knowledge of it back until he floated somewhere above it, allowing his mind to drift, aimless, without pausing to dwell on anything but the simple contemplation of the sight in front of him, of Merlin stretched so close to him. The scar had not disappeared from Merlin's brow, as it had in the painting, but there were other changes: the silver at his temples, Arthur could see, was true, and his hair was longer now than it had been. There were lines at his eyes and mouth that had not been there before; his skin had leathered further from salt and sun and sleepless nights, all the difficulties of a seafaring life. His shoulders were bare beneath the blanket, and Arthur thought for a moment, of removing the covers, as Braddock had done—of searching further for change—of pulling it down perhaps only on one side, the left, just far enough to expose Merlin's hand, for he wished to see—he wished—

He let the thought go, and did not move. Merlin's left hand was on the side furthest from him, toward the wall, and Arthur felt a clench in his gut at the idea that such a movement might wake Merlin. So he sat, his hands quiet in his lap, and let his worries wash from him, let himself sink into a quiet blankness which needed no more than the tiny movements of Merlin's breathing to be sustained. The weariness he had not allowed himself to indulge before was becoming more insistent, unrolling from his shoulders in a leaden cape which pulled at him seductively. His eyelids began to droop, and although he knew he should not fall asleep, not here, he did not have it in him to resist. 

It was chance—mere humble chance—that he had not yet succumbed before there was a flicker of movement on the other bed. His weariness did not abate, but there was a sudden burst of heat within his breast; he felt it spark inside his ears and behind his knees, bringing him far enough out of lethargy that he knew it was not a dream when he saw Merlin's eyes crack open into slits. A juddering tremor ran through him, and he did not dare so much as breathe. 

Merlin did not lift his head, or even shift it from side to side, but Arthur was too close, the room too small, for him to escape seeing Arthur. 

“Arthur.” Merlin's voice was scraped, dried out from the long hours spent sleeping and in pain.

“Yes.”

“Oh,” Merlin whispered, and closed his eyes again. 

Arthur sat and stared, unsure, light-headed from the uneven pounding of his heart. He was nearly certain that Merlin had not fallen back beneath the laudanum, but he could not read Merlin's reaction, and had not the first idea how to voice the questions which clamoured in his mind. 

“Are you—” he began, with difficulty. “Is it very painful?” He nearly gestured, meaning to indicate Merlin's injuries, but knotted his fingers together at the last moment—Merlin would not see the motion.

“It is tolerable.”

“Your leg, they said perhaps...”

There was a long silence between them, while Merlin struggled with his answer. “There is nothing to be done for it now,” he said, very quietly. “It will heal, or it will not.” The laudanum lay over him still, a thicker blanket than the one covering his body, and he made an effort to pull it back over himself, but the edges of it eluded him. Although the world remained blurry and distant, as if he viewed it through a glass, the comforting protection of oblivion would not return. 

It frightened him, the strength of the passions Arthur's presence raised in him. Arthur was never supposed to be here, never supposed to have followed him, to sit by his bedside with a bandaged head, looking haggard from exhaustion. Merlin had not thought of what might happen in the aftermath—movement and instinct had superceded all natural reason—but he wished, now, that the laudanum had been stronger or his injuries more grave, that he might have avoided this position. He wished that Arthur had been whisked immediately away to his own house, his own family and physicians. He wished he had been spared having to listen, eyes closed, to the clicking of Arthur's throat as he swallowed, for he was not sure how long he could withstand the hesitant sounds of Arthur's movements. 

It would not be long, he knew, before Arthur's natural impatience overcame his indecision, and that frightened him as well: laid out like this, his mind slowed by pain, he was not sure that he could lie. He was not even sure he _wanted_ to, and what was he to do with that? What was he to do, with the simplicity of admission so unbearably within his reach? Was he to surrender every inch of hard-won ground? The Arthur he had known would have taken that inch and refused to ever yield it—another parting would not have been easily wrestled from him, even if Merlin could have borne the agony of such a thing—but that was the Arthur of old, the Arthur he had known in another life. Merlin had no standard with which to weigh and measure how this new Arthur might react to such an admission. Arthur had other concerns now, and even the closest of ties decayed without proper care; ties which had been severed in so singularly devastating a fashion could not be expected to endure half so well. He well knew that he could not expect anything but old and painful memories from this meeting. To do otherwise was folly.

“Why—” Arthur began, and Merlin braced himself. The question hung between them, unformed, as Arthur groped for words. “I must...did you know?” There was a rustling as he sat forward, and Merlin opened his eyes again, staring at the ceiling, keeping Arthur cautiously at the corner of his vision. “Was it mere...coincidence...or did you know me?”

Merlin gave himself a moment to consider the possible answers, none of which were easy or appealing. His body ached; his leg throbbed in time with the pounding in his head, but it was not the pain of his injuries which made his head spin or his breath grow ragged.

“Don't,” Arthur said, sudden, as Merlin made to answer. “Don't lie to me.”

“I have never lied to you,” said Merlin—that much was true, at least, of his intentions. 

Arthur gripped his own thigh with one steadying hand, raising the other to close it around something hidden within his clothes over his breast. “Merlin—”

Merlin could not help but meet his gaze, then, caught Arthur's eyes with his own and wished desperately that it would be enough. He could not deny it—could not deny that he had seen Arthur in danger and acted without a moment of thought for himself—could not deny that even now he still placed Arthur's life above his own. There was no other living soul Merlin would sacrifice himself for, beyond the altar of his country. Arthur had always been his one great exception, his one terrible weakness; he would always be, and yet Merlin could not tell him so. He knew he no longer had that right.

Arthur could not possibly read all of this, from one glance, but he could read enough that he felt an irrational joy bloom, perverse, in his chest. “Oh,” he murmured, reaching to place one cautious hand on Merlin's arm. “Oh, Merlin.” 

Merlin flinched and drew his arm away at the touch, wincing a little; he crossed his right hand carefully above his left over his belly, leaving some distance between his body and Arthur's fingers. Arthur felt the hope in him dim at that, and removed his hand from Merlin's cot. 

“I saw your portrait,” he said, the story bubbling up in sudden desperation. He wished for Merlin to know the full reason he was here, needed Merlin to understand how his world had shifted even before the carriage accident. “This morning; I saw it hanging, and I—”

“Portrait?” Merlin looked bewildered. He was weary and in pain, and Arthur ached to smooth the lines from his forehead, to clear away every confusion between them. The best thing for Merlin would be to let him rest, as Braddock had asked, but Arthur could not help but want to stay, to talk forever. If only time would stretch out beyond itself, he thought; that they might stay hidden here in the quiet of the night, together, for longer than the terrible science of the world would permit. 

“I have been sitting for a portrait,” he said, beginning again, more slowly. “I am sure you have heard the painter's name—he is a famous man. I went to him this morning, to sit for a few hours, and happened to see a different portrait that had been commissioned from him. A very fine painting, of an admiral,” he added, watching Merlin closely, but Merlin's expression remained opaque. He pushed onward, regardless, for what had he left to lose? “He wore a ring,” Arthur said, his voice no more than a husk of its usual robustness. “A ring I thought—I hoped...”

Merlin did not pull away again, when Arthur reached for him, and Arthur gently—almost reverently—drew his left hand from beneath the blanket. There, there on his finger, was the ring Arthur would know anywhere, the ring he had chosen and given and despaired of ever seeing again. 

“You kept it.”

Merlin did not answer, but neither did he pull his hand from Arthur's grasp. He shut his eyes for a brief moment and closed his fingers around Arthur's, curling them together, for he _had_ kept it, yes, and he found he no longer wished to conceal it. It had given him untold grief, this unassuming loop of metal. He had meant to lose it, to throw it away in the street or the waves as soon as he could, but when the time came he could not go through with it: he had stood on the deck of his ship, the ring clenched tight within his hand, and he had slipped it on to his finger instead of flinging it as far as he could manage, because he could not bear to lose that last link to Arthur. 

He had not kept any of their correspondence. The painting and the teacup Arthur had given to him he had destroyed in an awful, hopeless rage which left him nearly inert from the violent aftermath of regret, rousing himself only when he could no longer avoid his duties. The ring now was the only thing he possessed which had been Arthur's, and when he had looked at it, chanced to see it on his hand...each time he had felt another tiny breaking in his soul. It had been foolish to wear it, but he had known that. He had known from the beginning that the rumours it caused must be vicious, but he had borne it, borne all of it, for the moment it slid over his knuckle it had become part of his very being; to remove it had been unthinkable.

“Yes,” he said, turning his head to look for Arthur. Arthur was still there, still reaching across the space between them in an awkward fashion to hold his hand. “Yes, I kept it.” The long grief did not matter now; he could ignore it, could ignore everything, all reality, for Arthur was there, eyes fixed on Merlin. Merlin knew his body was broken—he had broken it for Arthur—and knew, also, that it changed nothing, that Arthur was no longer his, never would be, but as long as Arthur looked at him like that, the pretending was a little easier. As long as Arthur kept their fingers intertwined, Merlin could believe that he was whole; that _they_ were whole, that there had never been such a bitter break between them. 

Arthur's mouth was open, but he did not speak, merely hooked a finger beneath his neckcloth to retrieve a chain which looped around his neck, pulling it easily from beneath his clothes. Merlin watched, most of his attention still tangled in the press of Arthur's palm against his until the chain came free—for there, at the end of it, dangled the match to his own ring. 

“You were not the only one,” Arthur said, catching the ring as it swung and folding it between his fingers. He pulled the chain over his head and held it out to Merlin, as if to offer it for further scrutiny. “I could not let go of you so easily.” He did not mean for the words to be an accusation, but Merlin felt them cut as keenly as any blade.

“Never for a moment believe it was easy,” Merlin cried, his voice uneven as the words ripped themselves free. He was not sure if he was about to laugh, or sob, or throw himself at Arthur—Arthur, who still wore his ring—Arthur, who was not as changed as Merlin had supposed. “Do you imagine I have spent one day without thinking of you since we parted?” He made as if to sit upright, and regretted it immediately, stifling a groan as the pain flared through him. Arthur moved almost instantly at that, shifting to sit on Merlin's cot and hushing him, taking his hand from Merlin's to wrap it around the back of Merlin's neck, supporting his head as he eased it back to the mattress. 

“Arthur,” Merlin said, overcome. “I have been a fool.”

Arthur gave him a crooked smile. “We are all fools, in this life.” He still gripped the chain with one hand, and Merlin took it from him with a gentle tug, wrapping the chain around his own fingers. The ring was bright, well-polished, with none of the usual signs of disuse or tarnish. Merlin imagined Arthur turning the ring between his fingers, over and over, alone in his dark study, and felt the grief well up in him again; he let it in, let it propel him to slide the ring onto Arthur's finger. It did not fit well—the chain was in the way, and it was not the proper finger—but it felt right, felt as if something had turned over into place.

“It gave me hope, to see you wearing it,” Arthur said, leaning close, laying one palm warm against Merlin's cheek—a little hesitant, to be sure, but steady—and Merlin reached up to lay his hand over Arthur's. “Was I wrong?”

All the usual answers remained, filling Merlin's mouth—that Arthur's hope had not been wrong—that hope changed nothing—that this remained an impossible fantasy—but Merlin closed them from his thoughts. He could feel Arthur's breath on his lips, warm and even; Arthur's hand was pressed on his face and he was leaning incrementally closer, so that their noses nearly touched, and Merlin had lost all power to deny himself. Perhaps it was selfishness. Perhaps it was merely the laudanum or the pain, but he could not think why on earth he must pretend; he could no longer bring himself to believe that whatever bound them to each other could be severed. He had seen, now, what life was without Arthur—what life was in an endless ocean, alone but for the distant ache of something lost—and no amount of sense could convince him any of that loneliness was worth it in the least. 

“A fool's hope,” Merlin said, grave, as he slipped his fingers into the hair at the back of Arthur's head, and when Arthur frowned Merlin tugged him forward—just the barest amount of pressure—until the last small distance was closed and he could touch their lips together. 

Arthur jerked in surprise, for this was the last thing he had been suspecting, but it did not take him long to recover. The kiss was soft, nothing more than the dry press of lips, but when it was over he reached for it again, and again, slowly at first, kissing Merlin almost hesitantly, then more quickly, while Merlin's fingers bent and tugged at his hair and Merlin returned the attentions just as eagerly. 

“Merlin,” Arthur murmured; “Merlin, I never—”

“Nor did I,” said Merlin, and quieted him with another kiss, one which deepened until he broke away for breath.

“I could not stop myself from missing you,” Arthur said, moving to kiss along Merlin's cheek and brow, the familiar scars there. “I did not even try.” 

Merlin brushed his thumb behind Arthur's ear—a sensitive spot he knew of old—and felt a warm rush when Arthur made a quiet noise, indistinct and unmistakeable. “I clung to your memory,” he said; “I thought it was all I would ever have again.” 

“You have me still,” Arthur said fiercely. “You have me, Merlin.”

Merlin bit his cheek against the emotions which threatened to spill out across the floor. He pulled Arthur in more firmly, and lost himself in the kiss, in the slide of Arthur's mouth against his—his memories, he found, were hardly enough to do it justice. Arthur was gentle in his demands, but he pressed in until all the world around them receded, vanishing under the immediacy of the slickness of Arthur's tongue and the heat of his mouth, all the trapped desires he unleashed. Merlin could not breathe, had no wish to. He held on and gave back twice what he received, kissing Arthur until he thought he might burst, until he could not tell where Arthur's trembles ended and his own began. 

There was no great sense of urgency, though both of them ached for what had been, what they had lost—for what they _felt_ , now, the potential which still remained. There was a reverence in the kiss which bore Merlin up and out of his head, buoyed him with relief fed only in small part by exhaustion, and in far larger part by the desire to give in purely to sensation, for it was there he found his higher truths. Arthur, in turn, hung on dearly to every moment Merlin allowed them, too afraid that every one might again be their last. The thought of discovery had crossed his mind, but he ignored it: there was nothing that could be done to them that would be worse than what they had put themselves through already. 

When at last the kisses slowed between them and Arthur paused for breath, he did not pull away—did not choose to be any further from Merlin than he was—and so when Merlin spoke, he felt it against his lips almost as the ghost of another kiss. 

“If you asked me again, I'd say yes.”

Arthur frowned. “What?”

“If you asked me now to go away with you,” Merlin clarified, every syllable deliberate. “I would.”

Arthur pulled back, as if he'd been struck—for he _had_ , each word was a blow to his softest parts. “Merlin,” he said, broken, and bent in for another kiss, harsher this time, his desperation breaking through. He had lost count of the years he had spent waiting to hear Merlin say exactly that; now, with Merlin newly found and gasping against his lips, he could not quite bring himself to believe it.

Merlin allowed the kiss, clung to Arthur as best he could, for the shakes in his bones were not from injury and pain—there was a fear there, a familiar terror that screamed in the dark of his body. If Arthur did not agree...but far worse, if he _did_...

When Arthur drew away again, Merlin maintained a grip on his wrist, unwilling to let the distance between them grow too far. 

“I am not the young man you knew,” Arthur said, looking very solemn and somewhat anxious. “There are obligations I must meet; responsibilities I did not used to have. I no longer answer only to myself.”

Merlin looked away from Arthur's face toward their hands, for he had glimpsed something in Arthur's eyes he did not wish to see. 

Arthur reached to intertwine their fingers. “You know I married because my father wished an heir to the Pendragon name, that I entered into that partnership for business, not for love.” He tightened his grip, but though Merlin felt it he did not respond, for he could not tell—

“A loveless marriage it remains,” Arthur continued; something loosened in Merlin's chest, but the pressure did not ease. “Yet it would have been enough if it had not remained a childless one as well. My father died still hoping for another strong Pendragon boy, but such a babe never came. I cannot tell you how many nights of sleep I have lost over that, through the years.” 

Arthur was sitting further upright, more animated now, while Merlin's confusion grew; he spared only half an ear while Arthur went on about his sister and the ward she had taken under her wing as her own, most of his attention fully focused on the bewilderment he felt. Better to focus on his bewilderment than the hurt which had begun to yawn in him as a pit, unsteady and as treacherous as a quicksand beach. The sting of it was all the worse because he should have _known_ this beach, had always known it would be nothing less than devastating if he drew close only to discover he had ensured his own demise. He felt the air squeeze from his chest as he gave himself to the drowning; Arthur's words and face blurred together as Merlin felt himself shrivel, the strength all running out of him like blood and water from a foundering ship.

There was an anger, too, rising up from within him, though he could not be sure if it bent further toward Arthur or toward himself. Fury boiled between the pain from his ribs and mangled leg, and he grasped at it as the last help offered to a dying man. He had known it would never be possible—had he not said that very thing all through the years?—he did not deserve to have such a rejection thrown in his face the very moment his resolve weakened. It was callous, disgraceful, entirely unbecoming to a gentleman, and he was determined to say so, that he might shame Arthur back to silence. 

“When a man dies abruptly,” Arthur was saying, and even the words caused something to seize up in Merlin's throat, “he must first ensure his family is taken care of. You understand, don't you? There are the legal matters of the inheritance, and the allowance given to my sister from the estate, and of course my widow would require—”

“I cannot believe this,” Merlin interrupted, made reckless again by anger and confusion as he pulled his hands away from Arthur's. He could not listen any longer to this, could not bear hearing Arthur talk so coolly of his own passing. It was a direct attack, no matter how Arthur meant it. “How can you...would you throw your life away so easily?”

Arthur looked at him, startled. “Merlin—”

“Arthur,” Merlin said, hardening his voice. “Are you so reckless that you must seek the final threads of your mortality again? Does—does what I have given for you have so little value to you? I would rather die myself than see you throw yourself away; I would rather see you back to your home, to your wife, and leave you there safe. I would give up any chance to see you in this world again, for at least I would know that _this_ —” he waved a hand, unsure even in his own mind if he meant his leg or the strange tension between them, “—has not been all in vain.”

Arthur caught Merlin's hand before he could pull it out of reach. “Merlin,” he said, urgently. “Merlin, you misunderstand me. How should I ever wish to die, now that I have found life again—now that I have you once again in front of me? You overestimate me; I am far too selfish of a man to ever give that up. There is nothing I want more than to be with you in some quiet spot, as far from the world as we can be.”

Merlin's breath caught, but Arthur was not finished.

“I cannot disappear. You must see that, Merlin; I would feel a coward for the rest of my days.”

“The words were foolishly said,” Merlin cut in, tugging his hand away from Arthur. “You are a man with obligations; of course I would never—”

Arthur clung harder to Merlin's fingers. “Still you do not understand,” he said with a wry smile. “Merlin, I only meant that it would take a bit of effort to orchestrate our escape. I cannot disappear, but if the world were to think me dead...why, I nearly died at sea before. Why should I not succumb in a second voyage? There would be no body to mourn, only a memory; every dangling end which would fidget me endlessly would be caught and cared for.” He took a breath. “I would be free, Merlin. Freer than I have ever been—free to escape where I will with whomever I choose.”

Merlin stared at him, simultaneously afraid he had mistook Arthur's meaning and terrified that he had _not_ , that he had understood perfectly. 

“I would do it,” Arthur said, searching Merlin's face. “To be with you, Merlin—there is nothing I would not do.”

“Arthur,” Merlin whispered, redoubling his grip on Arthur's hand. He bit at his lips against the hope growing in him, but it would not be contained; he knew it must be shining out of him most outrageously.

Arthur's smile was a slow, beautiful, trembling thing. He raised Merlin's knuckles to his lips and pressed a shaky kiss there. “Run away with me?” he asked. 

“You're a dangerous fool,” Merlin said, giddy as he carded a hand through Arthur's hair. “It's a very good thing that I am twice the fool you are.”

“Go away with me,” Arthur murmured, leaning down. “You know the currents and wind; triangulate a place for us to hide away forever.”

“Past the ends of the earth,” Merlin replied, “where no one will ever find us.” He could not stop the corners of his face from curling, and when he tightened his fingers in Arthur's hair and brought him down to kiss, he could feel their mouths matching in the same wide smile.

*

*

* * *

*

*

_FIVE LOST AT SEA IN SHAMEFUL FRENCH ATTACK_

 _It is with great sorrow that we announce the untimely death of the Marquess of Avalon and a confirmed four further souls, lost at sea. The ship_ Endeavour _was callously beset by a French privateer and sunk on its way to Malta, with most aboard rescued by a passing frigate. Lord Pendragon had undertaken the voyage in his annual visit to his sister, the Lady Morgana Fay, whose scandalous exploits faithful readers will be well-acquainted with. It had been hoped at first that Lord Pendragon had been captured for ransom by the pirates, but the sad facts have now been made all too clear._

_Our deepest sympathies to Lord Pendragon's widow in her solitary grief. Sources have given us to understand she will receive a comfortable allowance from the Pendragon accounts, while the bulk of the estate will pass to Lady Fay's young ward, named as the sole Pendragon heir._

_A passing bird has whispered to our discerning ear that a certain decorated Admiral Emrys also may have perished aboard the_ Endeavour _as he moved quietly to take up his new post in Gibraltar—faithful readers will remember the tragic accident that removed him from active commission following a glittering career—but we shall hold out every hope for the safety of the Admiral, the loss of whom all true Englishmen would mourn._

_Full obituaries for those who perished and details of Lady Pendragon's mourning gown may be found within._

**Author's Note:**

> (A tiny endnote: I must confess to having wilfully, with full knowledge of my actions, wrongly referred to Arthur throughout the series as “Lord Pendragon”—incorrect, as Pendragon is his surname. As the Marquess of Avalon he should properly be referred to as “Lord Avalon”—Avalon being his title (although before his father (the previous marquess) died, he would properly have been “Lord Tintagel”, as he would have used his father's second title as an honorific,)—but...I didn't like Pendragon not being his surname and I decided I didn't really care anyway, and therefore I merely beg your forgiveness and indulgence here, gentle reader. It's so disgruntling when you discover that reality does not match what you want it to be in your head. Anyway. *tiny shooting star* the more you know!)
> 
> (Also, as long as we're talking about historical accuracy, I should admit that I do only the bare minimum of fact-checking to avoid the most egregious errors; everything else pretty much gets handwaved through based on gut feelings and half-remembered knowledge of the era. Apologies to any fellow amateur or actual historians whose sensibilities were offended here. <3)
> 
> *
> 
> *
> 
> *
> 
> With this fic, the series is officially complete, but I won't be marking it as such just yet. If you're interested, tune in a week from today for a tiny special bonus, just for you. ♥
> 
> Also, DVD extras! If you would like to know what was behind a scene in the series, or perhaps see a deleted/extra scene, please let me know in a comment; requests will be open for one week.


End file.
